


untamed and full of teeth

by skatingsplits



Series: the dangerous edge of things [3]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Outdoor Sex, Public Sex, Rough Sex, all the usual fuckery i give them, but possibly a little bit softer?, i beg to differ, no specific warnings i can think of but just their usual weird sex stuff, what do you mean they're not a scheming macbethian married couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22972618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: Of course, despite his wife’s occasional teasing jibes to the contrary, Faustus isn’t a fool. He knows that even Zelda Blackwood isn’t all his, not really. The woman is a law unto herself, something which he finds infuriating and fascinating in equal measures. And even though she does still have one foot firmly planted in Spellman soil, one dainty foot taking root in his own metaphorical garden is more than he ever thought he’d get. After all, he’s always liked her with her legs spread.
Relationships: Faustus Blackwood/Zelda Spellman
Series: the dangerous edge of things [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1349164
Comments: 32
Kudos: 74





	untamed and full of teeth

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Title from that one Clementine von Radics poem, sue me.  
> 2\. I got a tumblr prompt for this about six months ago, the gist of which was "married Spellwood Lupercalia banging" and here we are!

All things considered, it’s been a rather excellent year. 

True, it had begun with a bit of a false start; all that ridiculous business with the child he still shudders to think of as his step-niece had been very trying. And the short-lived nature of his appointment as Anti-Pope is a cut that still stings when he allows himself to dwell on it, far more than any other form of self-flagellation. But as the months have progressed, all those downsides have been compensated for very nicely indeed. Although undoubtedly still odious, Sabrina Spellman is little more to him than a face in a crowd of students, all her melodramatic nonsense swiftly dealt with by an elegant guiding hand that it still gives him a thrill to see wearing his ring. It’s that same level-headed elegance which has helped Faustus to see that his demotion was perhaps a blessing from the Dark Lord in disguise- even though no unpleasantness had been verbalised, he’d gotten the distinct impression that the Witches’ Council were not entirely ignorant of the fact that old Father Enoch’s death had owed more to his host’s ambitions than to a faceless act of random violence. He’s still convinced that he’d covered his tracks too effectively for anything to be proved but there’s no real way to be certain and he doesn’t trust a single one of those decrepit bastards to not have used it against him for their own gain if the opportunity arose. After all, he would do the same. Besides, the new man in charge is ancient, weak, indistinguishable from all the other doddering old fools. Faustus is still young, powerful, vital. He can wait. And since his marriage, biding his time in Greendale has become a more palatable prospect than he had ever thought possible. 

In objective terms, there had been very little wrong with his first marriage. Constance had been attractive and intelligent, if a little too apt to overwrought displays of female emotion. Their partnership had been efficient and effective and although Faustus doesn’t _miss_ it, he doesn’t resent it either. If someone had asked him before he married Zelda, he would have speculated that his second marriage was unlikely to be a significant departure from the first. He would have a helpmeet again, with the added bonus of some posthumous revenge on the ever-present Edward Spellman. And rather more passion than the first time around, perhaps, but Faustus has lived long enough to know that even for witches, passion always fades. Or so he had thought. In actual fact, nothing could have possibly prepared him for the fucking whirlwind that it is to be married to Zelda Spellman. No, not Zelda Spellman. Zelda Spellman had been a remote, magnificent dream; something that he had coveted from a distance that she would never let him close. Zelda Blackwood is a different creature altogether. Still magnificent, there’s no doubt about that, but now that icy grandeur has thawed and ripened into a sublime warmth that he could almost dare to call attainable. She no longer slips out of his arms the instant her post-coital heartbeat has returned to normal, or impatiently brushes off invitations to dinner as though he’s foolish for even thinking that she might accept. She’s present and perfect and, most importantly, _his_. 

Of course, despite his wife’s occasional teasing jibes to the contrary, Faustus isn’t a fool. He knows that even Zelda Blackwood isn’t all his, not really. The woman is a law unto herself, something which he finds infuriating and fascinating in equal measures. And even though she does still have one foot firmly planted in Spellman soil, one dainty foot taking root in his own metaphorical garden is more than he ever thought he’d get. After all, he’s always liked her with her legs spread. 

There is, however, one significant drawback to having such an exquisite creature as one’s wife, something that, even after a year, still makes furious heat prickle in his stomach as violently as it had the first time. Zelda’s charm is obvious, her beauty even more so, and if he had a guinea for every time he’s had to forcibly stop himself committing homicide when someone had so much as let their gaze linger on his bride for a little too long, he could stock the coffers of the Church for centuries to come. It’s absurd, frankly, and if he could have foreseen how badly he burns with jealousy every time Zelda so much as smiles at a parishioner after Black Mass, he might never have gotten married at all. Faustus doesn’t even pretend to himself that it makes the slightest particle of sense; half of his favourite self-pleasuring material is comprised of memories of Zelda at coven orgies, undulating and writhing against faceless bodies. And Satan below, he’s devoted a considerable number of years to acquiring beautiful things that other men covet. It has always thrilled him, possessing something so divine that it inspires others to sin. But when that beautiful thing has a mind and a will of its own and, unlike a pornographic Hellenistic statuette or a hand-illustrated copy of Justine, could quite easily remove itself from his possession if it so desires, the thrill is somewhat tainted. And no curio, no matter how lovely, has ever inspired such a possessive passion in him as Zelda does. Of course, he’s sure that she has little cause for complaint. He’s under no illusion that she entered into this union for anything other than power and position (and possibly the fringe benefit of a seemingly inexhaustible supply of sex), and he can see, he can fucking see, how much his ambitious girl is thriving as the High Priest’s wife. No-one else could give her that, not the overeager would-be suitors who swarm round her at every possible opportunity and not her fucking family either, none of those infernal pests who think they have any kind of claim on her. His jealousy is irrational, Faustus tells himself repeatedly; there’s only one thing Zelda has ever wanted and he is the only person who can give it to her. Anything else is simply a distraction. Of course, such things are easy enough to think when he’s in their bed, relishing how sweetly she moans for him, or when she’s curled up in his lap making irritatingly precise alterations to his sermon, but it’s a little more difficult when it’s no longer just the two of them. 

It isn’t uncommon for him to slink into the back of her classroom while she’s teaching, but it isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence either. Practically all the students turn and gawp at him but Faustus dismisses them with a wave of his hand, his eyes fixed on one person only. She’s a fucking vision in her tight skirt and pseudo-prudish blouse, sheer stockings looking so deliciously rippable, and a pair of glasses perches on her nose that have him half-hard before she’s even had time to turn back to the blackboard. Ever since she flew out of their rooms this morning, in a hurry to solve some inane Spellman family crisis or another, Faustus has been thinking about exactly how many pieces he wants to tear that demure little ensemble into, how he’d take the little slut beneath it, her glassy eyes fluttering under those glasses as he bent her over his desk. And now he’s here, it’s plain to see that he isn’t the only one. Witches and warlocks alike are so blatantly under her spell, looking at her the way _he_ looks at her, and Faustus doesn’t think it’s because of their interest in the past participles of long dead languages. Sometimes it’s difficult for him to remember that Zelda is no longer than precocious, self-assured student who he’d taught everything he knew, in the classroom and out of it; for these randy young reprobates, she’s the glamorous figure of authority, more likely to dole out a punishing spanking than take one, and as illogical as it is, he doesn’t fucking like it. It makes matters worse that the naughty tart is so obviously showing off for him, tossing her hair and speaking in the low, dramatic voice that always sets his pulse racing. Teasing little exhibitionist. 

He stays there, half-hidden in the shadows of the dark room, while every student files past him. A tiny part of him wants to follow them out, to hear what they say about precious Professor Spellman once they’re out of the confines of her classroom, but the rest of him is focusing solely on the beautiful woman coming towards him, her unnecessarily long and thick wooden pointer still in hand. His collar suddenly feels a touch too tight as visions of the object’s other potential uses flash through his mind and then, without a word, he’s being pressed up against the wall and very thoroughly kissed. The wooden stick clatters to the ground as Faustus hungrily squeezes his pricktease of a wife to him but he doesn’t even have time to slide his hand under her shirt before she’s pulled back, her eyes glinting. 

“I must say, Father Blackwood, I had no idea you found Sumerian grammar quite so stimulating,” the devious little minx strokes his fairly obvious erection through his trousers and Faustus grits his teeth. 

“Only when the woman teaching it looks as though she’s just wandered in off the street corner, my dear.” In actual fact, there’s nothing even vaguely provocative about her attire but if there’s one thing that Faustus has always enjoyed, it’s punishing her for arousing him. Zelda rolls her eyes, the slightest twist of smirk on her lips, but before she can make a retort, he’s kissing her again, hungry, chasing something he can’t quite identify and can’t conceivably hope to find. He’s well enough acquainted with her body to feel the slight tremor in her breathing as he pulls back and his face is still only an inch from hers when he continues. “You dress like this on purpose, don’t you, sweetheart? You want them all to look at you. I bet if I reached under that slutty skirt, you’d be dripping all over my fingers, just from the way everyone’s been staring at your pretty little arse, hmm?” 

Zelda takes a deep, harsh breath but he’ll never know if she was going to encourage or stop him; his fingers barely have time to brush the hem of her skirt before the too-cheerful rumbling of young idiots in the corridor put paid to any further exploration. With a frustrated groan, Faustus thanks Satan that his cowl his now otherwise unmissable hard-on and presses one last brief, hard kiss to Zelda’s mouth. 

“Later, darling. I’ll show you what happens to naughty sluts who show off.” 

“I can hardly wait,” Zelda says dryly, brushing down her skirt with an air of unruffled detachment, but the wicked look he catches in her eye as he pushes past the incoming wave of chattering students is enough to set his nerves on edge for the rest of the day. 

Letting Zelda send him into a state of distracted arousal is almost alarmingly common for Faustus, but it’s seemingly never any easier to handle. His terseness with his Demonology students in the afternoon is nothing out of the ordinary- in fact, a good mood deriving from any midday marital satisfaction would have been far more unusual- but he’s even on a short fuse when he pops into the nursery to see his son. The boy is apparently teething, so the harried-looking nurse explains, and instead of his usual smile, Judas has only frowns and tears for his father, and Faustus can’t hand him back over quick enough. The woman’s frosty, judgemental smile irks him and he makes a mental note to have her replaced but it hardly even matters because the craving that’s been inhabiting his body all day is going to be satisfied so soon. He’s hardly been able to think about anything else. She needs to know, he needs to make sure she knows, that however many pairs of eyes greedily rake over her delicious body, there’s only one pair of hands that are going to leave her bruised and begging. The need to have her, claim her, is so overwhelming that by the time he reaches their rooms he’s hard again, and he needs her so maddeningly that he can’t help but be a little bit annoyed. She does this on purpose, he knows it, drives him to distraction so that when he does finally get to take her, he completely loses his self-control. Damn her, and damn himself for being unfailingly predictable enough for it to always work. 

It can be no surprise to his wife that the instant Faustus comes in the door, he sets to finishing what he’d started. Zelda is standing in front of her dressing room, carefully removing her jewellery with pristine poise that Faustus wants to absolutely ruin. They’re all pieces he’s bought her, he notices in the back of his mind even as the rest of him takes in the divine scent of her hair, and although he knows it means nothing, he can’t help feeling irrationally triumphant. Faustus wraps his arms around her waist and begins pressing greedy kisses to her neck, sneaking a glance at their reflection in the mirror. It’s perfect. He can have her right here, bent over the solid wood so she can watch herself getting fucked by him, watch how perfectly he wrecks her. Inadvertently, he lets out a small groan against her skin and feels her amused exhale. 

“Hello to you too, Faustus,” she teases, but if there’s one thing he isn’t in the mood for, it’s teasing. He grumbles wordlessly, kissing his way up her neck until he can lick that gorgeously sensitive spot behind her ear. Zelda squirms a little in his arms and he loves it, he wants nothing more than to simply lose himself in her pleasure. But he’s barely begun to undo the buttons of her prim little jacket when she pats his arm and he catches the amused sparkle of her eyes in the mirror. 

“I truly hate to interrupt when you’re so obviously enjoying yourself, your Excellency, but don’t you have somewhere to be?” The low, teasing timbre of her voice is so arousing that it takes a minute for his blood-depleted brain to catch up with her. When it does, Faustus swears violently, frustration swarming over his body so completely that he makes the glass bulb in the bedside lamp shatter into shards from six feet away, entirely inadvertently. _Fuck_. It’s the third fucking night of fucking Lupercalia and if he hadn’t spent the whole day thinking about his wife’s cunt, he would have realised that instead of spending the evening tangled in soft sheets and softer legs, he’ll actually be out in the freezing February night, keeping watch over a hoard of hormonal students. Unmoved by his outburst, Zelda reaches to light a cigarette, obviously taking considerable delight in his misfortune. 

“Poor you,” she coos, a malicious smile on her face. Faustus fixes her with a glare, although he’s still too cuntstruck to be really annoyed with her. “Never mind, darling. Maybe you’ll find something nice to play with out there in the forest. I know how much you like eager schoolgirls in red cloaks.” 

The image of Zelda at the Academy, utterly divine in her crimson dress as she batted her eyelashes at him from the lap of some thoroughly undeserving warlock, melting into his arms in the woods when he stole her away from her pathetic partner and made her scream amongst the fallen foliage, is such an overwhelming one that his fists clench and he hears her self-satisfied little laugh. Well, two can play at that game. He isn’t the only one who’s been craving this for decades. Moving back towards her, he brushes the soft hair back from her face with an expression of amused condescension that he knows sends her into the same frustrated arousal he’s been feeling all fucking day. 

“Oh, sweetheart. Why would I bother chasing after something inexperienced and fresh when I have an obedient little slut all trained up for me right here?” His lips brush against her forehead and he isn’t imagining the way her breathing hitches, he knows he isn’t. The dirty little bitch wants it as badly as he does but when she gently pushes him away, the face he knows so well is completely composed. 

“You ought to go. They can’t start without their master of the hunt.” Her voice drops deliciously on the last phrase and Faustus bites back a groan. Feast day or not, it’s utterly maddening that he has to go out into the freezing night when his favourite prey will be waiting right here. 

The students are keyed up, bubbling over with the reckless excitement of youth. It’s highly unlikely that many of them actually kept to the expected celibacy of the previous evening but Satan knows he can hardly blame them for that. Faustus could count on one hand the number of times his own celebration of the ritual _hadn’t_ accidentally turned into something a little more interesting than staring up at the night sky. When he sets them away, he musters as much dramatic flair as possible and barely even rolls his eyes when overexcited cheers and screams and laughter fill the air. But then he’s alone with nothing but the bitter chill of the wind and it’s difficult not to feel a little flat. The near miss with Zelda last year aside, it’s been years since he’s celebrated Lupercalia properly; Constance would never have put herself on show like that and even in their circles, it wouldn’t have been quite the done thing for him to so blatantly disregard any pretence of fidelity by partnering up with someone else. Wandering round the forest perimeter like a fucking guardian eunuch to make sure no more students get attacked by overgrown wolves, not even being able to slink back home to his warm bed and warmer wife... it’s all rather dispiriting. And his frustration is still simmering away under the surface, stoked up by thoughts of his wife wrapping herself up in silk sheets, flushed cheeks radiant in the firelight as she slides her hand between her thighs and- 

The tip of something sharp presses against his back and Faustus is instantly pulled back to reality, alert and alive and he would have already broken his would-be assailant’s neck if it weren’t for the gloriously familiar scent of sweet spiced flowers that’s suddenly drifting through the air. The scheming little harlot. He hadn’t even sensed her appear, too distracted with thoughts of... well, her. 

“Aren’t you going to run?” A low voice purrs into his ear as soft warmth presses against his side, sharp edge of something still gently digging into the small of his back. “I’m feeling generous, I’ll give you a head start.” 

Slowly, trying to control the smirk threatening to spill onto his face and avoid getting either his flesh or his favourite shirt indecorously sliced open, Faustus turns around. The groan that escapes his lips is involuntary but entirely warranted. The starched skirt suit is nowhere to be seen; his wife has transformed herself into the perfect picture of a huntress and he can’t remember the last time he was so instantly aroused. A deceptively demure scarlet cloak is wrapped around her shoulders but it’s doing a very poor job of hiding what looks like one of his favourites of Zelda’s wide array of decidedly sluttish nightgowns. Her tits are one vigorous movement away from spilling out of it and her nipples are unsurprisingly hard beneath the flimsy fabric, and the urge to get his hands on them is superhuman. In the dark, he can barely make out her shoes but they’ve made her as tall as him and the effect is almost embarrassingly attractive. The sharp object was evidently a delicate little knife, and it looks so at home in her elegant hand that for a moment, Faustus is almost breathless. She looks perfectly, savagely regal and he’s never wanted to utterly possess her as much as he does now. 

“And why would I do that?” His voice comes out all low and ragged and even in the dark, he can see Zelda’s eyelids flutter as he takes a step towards her instead. “Perhaps you’re the one who ought to run, my sweet. I’ve heard that there are wolves in this forest, waiting to devour delicious little girls who have more bravery than sense.” 

For one long moment, the Blackwoods simply stare at each other. The mingling sounds of mirth and pleasure are still audible from the recesses of the forest but each tiny scrap of Faustus’s attention is consumed by Zelda, every inch of her, every tiny little breath she takes and when she lunges forward, he is already so in tune with her that he’s ready. As quick and nimble as a cat, she darts past him but Faustus is quick too and she barely makes it a few steps before he brings them both crashing to the ground. He’s all over her before either of them can even catch their breath; cloaks are torn off and the pretty little knife is flung to the side. Another night, he would have let her play with it, ride him while she held it hard against his neck and commanded him like the goddess she is, but his precious girl doesn’t get to be in charge tonight. 

Their kiss is hungry, messy, and Zelda is so fucking receptive, writhing beneath him like his tongue is in her cunt instead of her mouth. He wants nothing more than to despoil his glorious huntress, melt her with pleasure until she’s his submissive little toy, and how lucky he is it that she always makes it such an effortless task. 

“Such easy prey, aren’t you, my pet?” His voice comes out in a low growl against her neck and Zelda’s moan sounds particularly loud in the vastness of the forest. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you wanted to be caught. You came out here because you wanted a big bad wolf to pin you down and eat you up.” 

“I merely wanted to participate in our most unholy feast day, your Excellency.” Her attempt to tease him when she’s the one who’s already breathless is utterly adorable, and he can hear the needy edge beginning to colour her voice. “You left me all alone to come out here into the woods on our favourite holiday, with so much fresh meat for you to play with...” 

“Oh, darling. Was my pretty girl jealous? Were you worried I was going to find a tight little hole to fuck out here and not even let you watch?” The way she’s slipping into that gorgeous state of submission so quickly is visible in her face; her eyes are going glassy, painted red lips parted, and Faustus doesn’t have to slide his hand between her thighs to know how wet she is. He does anyway, but he didn’t have to. “But I wasn’t, Zelda. I was going to come home and make love to my sweet little wife. But that’s not what you want, is it? You don’t want me to worship your pretty body on nice, soft sheets and tell you how much I love you, sweetheart. You want this. You want me to hold you down on the muddy ground and _use_ you like a worthless little whore, don’t you?” 

Zelda’s response is the neediest keening noise he’s ever heard and it’s this, this is why she was always meant to be his. Everyone else wants efficient, competent, elegant Zelda, poised and composed and so far above them all. Only he can drag her down into the dirt with him, literal or metaphorical, and make her admit that this is really where she belongs. They’re the perfect, perfect pair and he’s hellishly desperate to prove it. 

“It would be... appropriate, would it not?” She gasps out, squirming as his fingers find their way to her clit through a barrier of sodden silk. “For Lupercalia?” 

“And you’re _so_ concerned with what’s appropriate, precious. That’s why you wore this wet dream of costume into the woods, to tempt your husband into making a public show of you, hmm?” Zelda gives him that look, the fiery glare that doesn’t need words to simultaneously tell him how much she hates him and beg him to fuck her. 

“I was merely attempting to participate in one of our Church's oldest and most cherished traditions,” she says stiffly and it's amazing that the little slut can sound so supercilious when she's grinding her wet cunt against his hand. 

“I know, I know,” he soothes her. “What a good girl, coming to celebrate with me and dressing up so nicely. The perfect High Priest’s wife, aren't you, beautiful?” 

She moans and even in the moonlight he can see the muscles in her stomach tensing as she tries to keep herself together. He isn't gentle as he strokes her clit and she's so obscenely wet that he can't help but feel a little triumphant. He isn’t the only one who needs this, who’s been needing it all day. And her undignified whine as he takes his hand away from her wet little pussy to undo his trousers is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. 

“Faustus...” she complains as he squeezes her hips, trailing his hands all over glorious silk-covered flesh. “You're teasing.” 

“Don't whine, sweetheart. You know I like to play with my food before I eat it.” He pinches her nipples through the flimsy material, self-control rapidly slipping through his fingers. “You've always had the prettiest tits, little wife of mine. Of course, I don't know why I'm telling you, you know that. You like the way everyone stares at them, even when you’ve covered them up, you dirty little tease. Maybe I should fuck them, darling, and come all over that beautiful throat you like to hide under your prissy blouses.” 

He tears the material in two, right down the middle and Zelda makes a wordless noise of indignation. “Oh, be quiet.” With the back of his hand, he strikes her firmly across her chest and his slut moans like he’s paying her by the hour. “I’ll buy you a new one.” That idea is far more exciting than he’d realised before he said it, and as his mind spins a rapid fantasy of ripping all of Zelda’s clothes off her body so he can deck her out in new ones and have her always wearing his presents, he has to grind himself against the wet heat of her cunt. Unsurprisingly, she pushes back against him wantonly, and seeing her chasing her own pleasure is so delicious. He can tell by the way she’s angling her hips that she’s trying to coax him inside her and he merely grins, teeth bared as he does nothing more than rub steadily against her. 

“For Satan’s sake,” his bratty girl snaps at him, savagely clawing at his lower back. “If you don’t fuck me now, Faustus, I’ll go and find some pretty young warlock cock to sit on, I swear I will-” 

She’s forced to break off when Faustus lazily covers her mouth with his hand, and the effect is instantaneous. Her eyes darken and her body goes pliable beneath him and it’s absolutely fucking divine. 

“Shh now,” he chastises her gently. “It's time for dirty, slutty little girls to be quiet. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say, my sweet. And I know you're always wet enough for me to just slide right in there but I'm going to play with my pretty toy first, do you understand?” Zelda nods and he knows her body well enough to know she'll be quiet when he takes his hand away. Idly toying with her nipples, he continues, “You can be noisy, precious, because I want to hear how good I make you feel. But if you try to tell me what to do again, I'm going to get very cross, and we don't want that, do we?” 

Zelda shakes her head this time, almost panting beneath him. With a tender murmur of praise, Faustus dives in, fastening his mouth around her pert nipple. Flickering his tongue over one hard little peak and then the other, Zelda’s corresponding moans have him pushing his hips down desperately trying to find some friction. She’s being almost impossibly loud and if anyone is listening, they’ll all know exactly what he can do to their perfect poised professor. With a rough growl, he fucks three of his fingers into her dripping cunt and the lack of restraint with which she groans and whimpers is more satisfying than his own physical pleasure. His thumb barely ghosts over her clit as he scrapes his teeth over a pretty pink nipple and when her cunt flutters around his fingers, he laughs, harsh and hungry. 

“Come on, slut, I _know_ you can come from this,” he grunts, curling his fingers inside her in a movement he’s been practising for decades. “Come, now, I want to feel you squeeze me, that's a fucking order.” 

It’s impossible to tell whether it’s his words or his tongue or the forceful movement of his hand but Zelda’s choked gasps for air as her body arches and quivers under his touch tell him everything he needs to know. A scream of his name would have been better but she’s still a perfect picture of debauchery, lost in pleasure as she thrusts against his hand like she hasn’t been touched in weeks. Completely consumed by her, Faustus isn’t physically capable of being gentle as he grabs her, flips her over so she’s propped up on shaking knees, beautiful hair a mess and pale skin prickling in the February frost. 

“Faustus...” is all she seems to be able to pant as he strokes up her thighs, along her back, relishing the soft heat of her. It’s overwhelming, the need to claim her, have her, own her. 

“You think you’re a hunter,” he purrs, gripping the backs of her thighs hard enough to leave little red roses blooming on the delicate skin there. “When really, you’re nothing but a greedy little animal, desperate to be fucked. Desperate for me. Tell me, wife, tell me how much you want me, how fucking much you want my cock inside you. Your body is screaming for it, my love, all you have to do is tell me.” 

Trembling all over, Zelda shakes her head, and Faustus growls. He knows she loves this game, loves to be taunted and teased until he draws every last little bit of resistance out of her; usually he loves it too but he’s achingly hard and he just has to _have_ her. “You’re lucky I’m so fucking hard for you, you brat, or I’d leave you here with your legs spread in the mud and an empty cunt. Tell me you want me, Zelda, I won’t ask again.” Harshly, the flat of his palm comes down against her thigh and she makes a noise that has him gritting his teeth against the urge to just push into her regardless. 

“Please!” She moans, rocking backwards against him. “Faustus, please, husband, fuck me.” Her body is tense and her voice is laboured with desperation and he loves it, he loves her. “Come on, you bastard, fuck me, _fuck_ me, you sadistic excuse for a-” 

She doesn’t have time to finish before he slams into her, grabbing a handful of her hair to keep her pressed down as he pounds into her remorselessly. Her back is arched up towards him and if she was ever trying to restrain herself from moaning like a ten-cent whore, she certainly isn’t now. 

“Everyone can hear you,” Faustus hisses through gritted teeth and Satan, this isn’t going to last long, she feels so _fucking_ good, hot and wet and clenching around him. His shaking fingers find her clit and if he’d been rough before, it’s nothing to his movements now. “I bet they all think you’re just another schoolgirl slut, using the Dark Lord’s teachings as an excuse to get fucked in the forest. You’re making so much noise they probably think you’re a squealing little virgin getting a cock inside her for the first time. Do you think that He can hear you, precious? Do you think that if you’re loud enough, He’ll come up from Hell and fuck you himself?” 

With a sharp cry, Zelda’s arms give way as her cunt squeezes him like an obscene little vice, so wet that his fingers keep slipping away from her clit, but he doesn’t stop. 

“I should come all over your back and that pretty red hair and leave you here, so everyone knows what happens to dirty little girls who forget who they belong to,” he grunts, his hand digging into her hip so hard she might be bleeding. He hopes she is. 

“No...” the noise is quiet but he hears it. “I want...” 

Oh, fuck. He knows what she wants to say and he groans, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t lose it instantly. 

“You want what? Say it. Say it, slut, say it and I’ll give it to you.” Zelda makes a small, desperate moan and he’s not going to be able to stop himself much longer. It’s completely fucking divine how much she always wants this, and how much she blatantly hates herself for wanting it. His wife will do all manner of depraved things without so much as blinking but this always makes her squirm and he doesn’t have to see her face to know it’s flushed as pink as her pretty nipples. 

“Come inside me,” her voice is trembling and wrecked and he’s wrecked too, so utterly wrecked and he’s spilling inside her before he even realises it, moaning her name so desperately that it would be humiliating if it weren’t completely and absolutely blissful. Faustus doesn’t even remember rolling off her but the next thing he knows, they’re lying side by side on the ground, looking up at the blanket of darkness above them. 

His wife is panting, her chest rising and falling as she lies on the forest floor with her hand over her eyes and somehow, he can see all the multitudes of Zeldas at once. There's his sweet, submissive little girl who lets him wreck and ruin her and always asks for more; there's his naughty brat who’ll bite and scratch and struggle and then come all the harder for the fight; the divine, disinterested lover he's been craving for the better part of three centuries; and his regal, delicious wife, the perfect partner in his every endeavour. He slides his hand into her hair, stroking the messy golden curls, and doesn't miss the way her mouth twitches into a small smile. 

“You know you’re terribly easy to wind up,” she comments, as casually as if she hadn’t just been fucked like a ragdoll in the middle of the woods. Unconcerned, Faustus just hums in amused agreement. 

“You were such a good girl for me, sweetheart,” he purrs and although he knows she usually loathes post-coital tenderness, he’s is fairly certain her noise of embarrassed dismissal masks genuine pleasure underneath. He moves to kiss her, only to be stopped by a firm hand pressing against his shoulder and a truly wicked glint in her eye. 

“I must say, husband, if this is how you like to to celebrate Lupercalia, I can’t _wait_ to see what you’re going to do for our anniversary.” 


End file.
